


Latent

by InsaneTrollLogic



Category: Psych
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Plotty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 11:05:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1345147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneTrollLogic/pseuds/InsaneTrollLogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Shawn Spencer’s six-year tenure as SBPD’s psychic detective, they’ve solved cases that wouldn’t be closed anywhere else in the country. But in a missing persons case with no leads, it looks like their luck might have run out… with Gus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Latent

**Author's Note:**

> A Lassiter character study disguised as a Shawn character study disguised as a case fic. With angst on top. I'm serious about the angst. 
> 
> Originally posted to LJ 4/3/2012

Juliet dumps Spencer a week before it all happens. Lassiter won't admit it, but he's been looking forward to that inevitability since they started to go out. Juliet assures him that Shawn has done nothing that requires castration, but that doesn't stop him looking for an excuse. He hasn’t realized it yet, but it's the start of Spencer's fall and he watches it with an unholy glee which lasts right up until the day Guster goes missing.   
  
Spencer is at the station within the first two hours, but the police can't move until the first twenty-four passes. Juliet's off for the week, but she also hasn't talked to Shawn since they cut ties. Lassiter calls her anyway and she picks up in a foul mood and snaps, "Maybe he just needed a break from Shawn."  
  
Messy breakups are something Lassiter can understand. He's had his share, but Spencer doesn't seem the type. Shawn Spencer has myriads of acquaintances, people who owe him favors and people who genuinely seem to enjoy his presence. It extends to criminals as well as ex-girlfriends. Still, six plus years after meeting the man, Lassiter is just now realizing Spencer is short on actual friends.   
  
The day when Guster goes missing starts one of the worst weeks of Lassiter's life and it's not just because of the lack of evidence. His sister phones to remind him to call his mother and he spends an afternoon where he could be working listening to bitter complaints about the man who left his family when Lassiter had been just thirteen years old. The sight of the increasingly downtrodden Spencer is somehow worse than him at his most exuberant. At least when O'Hara dumped him, he had Guster to brighten his spirits, the two of them munching on gushers or slushies or some other trendy snack-food Lassiter has never bothered to learn.   
  
Twenty-four hours after Spencer's plea, they can finally move on the missing person's report. Burton Guster disappeared somewhere in between the hours of one and eight, presumably on his usual route between the Psych offices and his own apartment. The pharmaceutical company where Guster works confirms that he never completed his rounds, but that's hardly unusual. With all the hours Gus logs at Psych, it's a miracle he hasn't been fired years before.   
  
There are any number of reasons a grown man might go missing, but Guster is one of the few people Lassiter knows and  _understands_  well enough to dismiss them all.  
  
Spencer haunts the station, staring at Juliet's desk and going through every scrap of paper Lassiter generates on the case. His father tries to chase him out of the precinct stating a conflict of interest. Spencer complies without argument, but sneaks back within the hour.   
  
Lassiter only has one conversation with him that week. It happens just after he'd been joking with McNabb, swearing Gus would be back, that he'd found a girl and run off to Comicon. McNabb leaves the room grinning but the glass smile shatters on Spencer's face as soon as he's gone.  
  
Comfort is not Lassiter's strong point. He's tried before, but after the time Edna Lancaster chased him out of her house waving a shotgun when he broke the news of her son's death, he'd been banned from next of kin notifications. "Are you all right, Shawn?" he asks.  
  
Spencer looks up, the mask back. "Are we on first name terms now, Lassie? If I'd have know this was all it took, I'd have told Gus to take a vacation years ago."  
  
"This isn't a joke," Lassiter says. "Because not even you and Guster are stupid enough to pull something like this. If you are, I will personally ensure that you see jail time."  
  
The snort of laughter is a welcome sound, but the look in Shawn's eyes isn't. "Thanks, Lassie."  
  
"For what?"  
  
"For treating me normal."  
  
"We're going to find him."  
  
Shawn shakes his head. "Yeah, but probably not alive."  
  
"This one of those psychic flashes? Because we both know that's—"  
  
"Statistics, Lassie. It's statistics. You know how many people go missing every year and you know how many of them never come back."  
  
"We'll find him." Lassiter says, but at the same time he's thinking of an old case. Of Sally Alzner, the twenty year old kid who'd vanished off the pier one Friday night just a year after he'd made detective. It's the case he would obsess over because the one that happened eight years prior hurt too much to think about. They haven't had a case with no leads in almost six years. Since Spencer had slithered into the station, fingers on his temple, Lassiter knows there are a dozen cases solved that would still be open in every other department in the country.  
  
He wonders sometimes if Sally Alzner might have gotten closure with Shawn Spencer on the case. If he would have picked something ridiculous like death by dinosaur skull and given her family some answers.  
  
Wonders if there's a person out there who might give Spencer some answers. "Don't give up on him," Lassiter says. "Guster's stronger than I give him credit for."  
  
"That he is," Spencer agrees. "But his biggest strength is running like a little girl when he's in trouble. And that's what I'm worried about. That he had no chance to run."   
  
With that, Spencer stands up and leaves. Lassiter has no doubt the official Santa Barbara investigation is not the only ongoing investigations.  
  
He also knows that Shawn isn't keeping a thing from them, because there's nothing. No sign. No forced entry at either the Psych office or Guster's apartment. No sign of the horrendous blue car. Just Gus who was there right up until the moment he wasn't.  
  
"Get some sleep, Spencer," he calls to Shawn's retreating back. "You're no use to anyone if you're dead on your feat."  
  
Spencer turns around but keeps backpedaling. "I'm not the only one who's been up since this started."  
  
It's true. It's been almost four days since Spencer's report. Three since Guster was found missing and he's been up for thirty-seven hours straight combing through the reports. He used to push himself like this in college, but even caffeinated to the extreme, under pressure of exams, his focus is gone by the fortieth hour. He goes back to his condo and falls asleep fully clothed on the couch before he even makes it to the bed.  
  
He's awaken only four hours later by the buzz of his cell phone against his hip. O'Hara's on the line, her voice terse, "Carlton, we found him."  
  
"Gus?" Lassiter goes from half asleep to wide-awake. "Is he alive?"  
  
It's a stupid question and he knows it as soon as it passes his lips. It's just past three in the morning. If it had been good news they would have waited until six.   
  
"No," Juliet replies. "No, he's not. I'm headed to the scene now."  
  
"Has someone told Spencer?"  
  
There's a long pause. Juliet has long been the go-between for Spencer and the rest of the department, one of the few detectives willing to trade antics and the logarithmic increase in paperwork for results. After the break up, even Gus had earned some of Juliet's ire. That surprised him. Even when her frustration with Shawn had mounted, Juliet had always been friendly with him. "I'll get someone to do it," she says. "Christ, this is a nightmare."  
  
"Let him sleep for now. I only just got him away from the station. In the morning I'll go."  
  
"You? You never do next of kin notifications."  
  
"Guster's one of us," Lassiter says. "It's distasteful, but it's been true for years. Shawn deserves to hear it from one of us. Give me the address, I'll meet you there."  
  
It's only a few blocks from the Psych office, so Lassiter isn't surprised to see Spencer's motorcycle just outside the scene. He's a flannel over shirt that clashes horribly with the bright yellow smiley faces that adorn a pair of pajama bottoms. His hair is laying flat against his scalp save a single piece in the back which is sticking straight up. Lassiter considers asking him how he got the scene, but isn't interested in the automatic gesture of fingers to the forehead when he knows perfectly well Spence stole a police scanner from Buzz McNab five years ago.  
  
"The found him, didn't they?" Spencer asks.   
  
"You don't need to be here."  
  
"Bullshit, I don't. If they found Gus, I want to see. You know I can help. You need me."  
  
"Spencer—"  
  
"Don't give me the speech about how this is official police business or how this is something I can't handle. This is Gus."  
  
"It was Gus."  
  
Spencer's knees give way. It's a sudden thing rather than a collapse and he's sitting down on the grimy pavement, his head between his legs like he's about to vomit. Confirmation, Lassiter realizes. Burton Guster is dead in an alley just a few yards away. If he strains he can see Juliet behind police tape. "Shawn," he says, the name thick and unfamiliar on his tongue. "I'll get you the police photos if that's what you need, but there's no reasons you need to be here now."  
  
"The smell," he mumbles. "Gus always said it made him sick. The super sniffer got over-sensitive or something."  
  
Lassiter hesitates and then walks over to put a hand on Spencer's shoulder. "If you go over there, you're never going to be able to think of your friend without remembering. We've got this. We're good at this."  
  
It's a surprise when Spencer nods and lets Lassiter help him to his feet. He's not started to cry yet. Lassiter diagnoses it as shock and flags down an officer on scene to baby-sit, before moving to the scene himself.  
  
Truth is, Lassiter shouldn't be on this scene either. But then neither should Juliet, McNab nor half of the people on the force. "Carlton!" Juliet says. Her face is pinched, somewhere in between annoyed and exhausted. "I thought you weren't going to tell Shawn yet. We don't need him contaminating this crime scene."  
  
"He already knew."  
  
"How could he possibly—"  
  
"You're the one who's insisted he's a psychic for years," Lassiter snaps.  
  
O'Hara's jaw snaps shut. Which is interesting because she normally retorts by asking how he could possibly come up with his information without being psychic. "Drunk called the body in around two. No signs of foul play. Coroner should be able to get us a cause of death. Nothing's obvious and in cases like this, I'd normally say drug overdose, but—"  
  
"This is Guster. He knows his pharmaceuticals. He wouldn't OD accidentally and I doubt that he's one for suicide."  
  
"Exactly. We'll get him off to Woody as soon as we finish photographing the scene."  
  
Lassiter nods, and moves to the scene himself. The body—he won't let him think of it as Guster—is supine, pressed neatly between the back of the dumpster and the wall. His clothes are nearly replicas of the ones he wears every day, but they're too clean for the location. Which means that the body was dumped. That this isn't the real crime scene.   
  
By his side, his phone buzzes. Text from Spencer who has somehow managed to change his contact info to read, Psychman.   
  
_Did they find the blueberry?_  
  
Utterly devoid of emoticons, but Lassiter is willing to be that's a side-effect of circumstances rather than an imposter. It takes him a moment more to realize that the blueberry is their nickname for that infernal death-trap Guster drives.   
  
"Car," Lassiter calls aloud. "Did anyone report the sight of a blue Toyota Echo near or around the scene?"  
  
The officers on scene snap to attention, moving toward the growing crowd of onlookers as Lassiter pecks back a text,  _Working on it._  
  
The rest of the night passes in a blur. He doesn't see Spencer, again, but he knows Shawn wouldn't leave. Not while his best friend's body is still out in the open. The clouds have choked the light out from the stars and the slight brightening that accompanied the sunrise brings only rain. By the time they bring out the body bag for Guster, he's drenched to the skin, as cold as he can remember feeling in his life. The crime scene had been as clean as the disappearance. He closes his eyes thinking of Sally Alzner, and Roger Lassiter; cases with no answers.   
  
He hopes this won't be one of them.  
 

***

  
Lassiter manages a few hours of sleep at home. Just enough time to make him remember how exhausted he is before he hauls himself back down to the station. Henry Spencer approaches him the when he's sipping on his coffee and cursing life. Unlike Shawn who'd looked shell-shocked, Henry gives the tell-tale signs of someone who's been crying. "Detective Lassiter, may I have a quick word about Shawn?"  
  
The headache's already making its insistent way through his temples. "Guster's autopsy should be done by now and I've got sixteen hundred things to do."  
  
"My son's going to want access."  
  
"I'm inclined to give it to him. Despite my distaste for his methods, he gets things solved."   
  
Henry crosses his arms and breathes out. "When Shawn was a baby he cried all the time. It took me a while to figure out why. My boy. He sees everything. Gus is the only person I ever knew who could help him turn it off for a while. And if I know Shawn, he's going to make himself part of this investigation. Make sure he doesn't get lost in it. Do you think you can do?"  
  
"With all due respect, Henry, why are you asking me?"  
  
Before he can answer, Juliet's voice cuts through the din of the station. "Carlton! Let's go."  
  
"I don't want to lose my son, Carlton," Henry replies. "I've already lost one this week."  
  
He doesn't acknowledge the statement as he turns to Juliet. O'Hara is the picture of composure, her hair in a tight bun her suit without creases though she'd been on the crime scene most of the night. They don't say a word, but Juliet has been reluctant to talk about anything involving the duo since her break up, Lassiter doesn't know why he expected it to change now.  
  
Spencer meets them outside the medical examiner's entrance. He's changed out of his pajamas but somehow looks even worse than he did three hours ago. His eyes are red, his skin pale, he greets them with a nod. Juliet narrows her eyes for just a moment. Lassiter waves him over. "You sure you want to see this, Spencer?"  
  
"No," he replies, rubbing his hands up and down bare arms like he's freezing. The station is more than comfortable. "Not at all."  
  
Lassiter hesitates for just a second before opening the door for him. O'Hara is a step behind, mouth agape.   
  
And Gus is flat on the slab, a white cloth covering the y-shaped incision on his chest. Lassiter has seen the results of a lot of autopsy over the years. This is the first time it's been someone he may have counted as a friend.   
  
Not having a body is worse, but this is something he won't tell Spencer. This is a cold comfort he hasn't earned. Woody is smiling when they first enter, is always smiling when people come for autopsy results but he schools it quickly from his face. Still, it's a detail Lassiter files away. He has similar dossiers on almost all his coworkers. Has since the Drimmer incident. Woody has several markings of a sociopath. Shawn Spencer is a pathological liar. Henry Spencer could easily kill someone in a fit of passion.   
  
Guster though, the worst he could ever think of Guster was capable of was conspiracy to commit fraud. And only then at Spencer's insistence. Juliet might be capable of manslaughter. He hadn't realized just how long she could hold a grudge. Surprising, considering she's still his friend.  
  
"What do you have, Woody?"  
  
"A body." Woody answers the question with the obvious, doesn't notice Spencer's flinch. "Oh, you mean the autopsy. Asphyxiation. Found an injection point hidden in a freckle so I'm assuming drugged. Not enough to kill him, mind you, but definitely enough to make him nice and sleepy. Not much of a struggle, but there is sign of bruising around the lips. Swollen lungs indicate lack of oxygen."  
  
"What about signs of a struggle?" Spencer says. "Fibers under the fingernails? Anything that says he might have been kept somewhere. Cause of death maybe?"  
  
"Checked, but we've got nothing. Whoever did this was clean. As for time of death. My best guess puts it between five and seven days ago."   
  
Almost the instant Guster was taken. Which means they had no chance at finding him alive. The knot eases in Lassiter's chest. Somehow it's easier if he knows there's nothing he could have done.  
  
Juliet on the other hand stares at Spencer and says, "You didn't see anything before this happened? Nothing that could have stopped this?"  
  
It's the kind of question she's prone to asking but there's a razor sharp edge that's new. Spencer shoots her a look that's bleeding. "You really think I would have let this happen if there was a single way I could have stopped it?"  
  
Woody whistles and looks towards the ceiling. "Okay, awkward."  
  
"I just think it's weird you never  _saw_  anything."  
  
"Children. Enough!" Lassiter snaps. "I don't care who dumped who or any of your sordid little details of your former relationship. I just need you to focus. Be serious for just a moment."  
  
"Do I look like I'm anything but serious?"  
  
"You're never serious."  
  
"I swear to god, I will kick both of you out of this morgue." Woody moves at the pseudo threat in this voice and Lassiter has to reign himself in just a bit. "Not you, Woody."  
  
"Damn, you're sexy when you get like that," Spencer says and Lassiter almost smiles because for just a moment everything is normal.   
  
Woody clears his throat. "Tox screen should come back and give us an idea about the sedative used. With any luck it's on a controlled substance list and we can narrow down suspects."  
  
"Fantastic," Lassiter says. "Let us know if you find anything useful. Juliet, start making calls to see if anyone's turned up Guster's claptrap of a car. Spencer, if you're up to it, I've got a stack of crime scene photos I want you to sort through."  
  
Juliet makes a face like she's about to argue, but thinks better of it. Spencer trails him back to his desk where he looms silently until Lassiter digs out the stack of photos. When Spencer holds out a hand, Lassiter pulls back. "What did you do to Juliet?"  
  
"Lassie, I really don't want to talk about this right now. She broke up with me."  
  
"I know. I promised you a long time ago that if you hurt her I would kill you. But I know not even you are stupid enough to cheat on someone like O'Hara."  
  
"You won't kill me. I'm a lovable rascal." The quip is nearly automatic, but Spencer's heart isn't in it. "Look, I made some mistakes. I kept secrets but I kept the secrets I had to. When I tried to come clean, it went a bit worse than I'd hoped."  
  
"And what was this deep dark secret that sent  _Juliet_ running?"  
  
"I'm not a psychic," Spencer says and tugs the pile of crime scene photos from his hands. "Is this all you got?"  
  
"I'm sorry, did you just say you're not a psychic? I mean of course you're not a psychic, but I never thought you'd admit it."  
  
"Doesn't seem like it's something that matters very much right now. Psych's not going to keep running without Gus. Did you notice the clothes? There's no way he was killed there."  
  
"Of course we saw it. Despite what you may think, we do on occasion get along without you."  
  
"The dumpster. Did you have to move it before taking the photos?"  
  
"No, we didn't move the dumpster." Lassiter pinches the bridge of his nose. "Hold on a second, Juliet dumped you because you weren't actually a psychic? I mean isn't this something she knew coming in? There's no such thing as psychics."  
  
"The secret really wasn't so much the issue as the lying to her face. Someone moved the dumpster. There are clear marks about it, different from the one the dump truck uses for the pick-ups. Gus wasn't just dumped for convenience, someone went through a lot of trouble to push the dumpster away from the wall and then put the body there. Which means they wanted him found, but not right away. Trash pick-up is twice a week, but the body's older than that. Means he's been there three days at most."  
  
"Spencer that's… astounding."  
  
"It's useless. We need the car. The body's this guy showing off, but getting rid of the car is going to be an issue. He drove to Canada so he could get this model. Not available in Santa Barbara so he's going to have a hard time passing it off without people remembering." Spencer scrubs his hands over his face. "Maybe I should go to the crime scene. Maybe there's something I missed. Something I'd be able to see in person."  
  
He tosses the photographs back onto the desk. "Don't you need them for any longer?"  
  
Spencer shrugs and taps his middle and index finger to his temple, a parody of his psychic pose and Lassiter suddenly gets it.  
  
Spencer remembers. He's got in up in that vacant head of his and it's never going to go away. "You're not going to find anything else there. There's got to be something else."  
  
"There's nothing else, Lassie. There's the Psych office where I've been for most of the week and then there's Gus's apartment and they're both clean. Nothing wrong with them. The lock at Gus's looked forced, but that's because of me not a break-in and if there was something off about Psych, I would have noticed."  
  
"How about any cases? Did you get any threats in the mail or is this something completely out of the blue. There are people who disappear every day, but it’s a different case if he was targeted."  
  
"I dunno. I'm not good with letters. Gus took care of those and the bills." He frowns. "I should go through to check that out. I've got nothing else to go on."  
  
"Spencer, no one disappears without a trace. The fact that we say they do just means we're not looking hard enough."  
  
Spencer snorts. "Lassie, do you have any idea how many people go missing every year and never get found. The fact that Gus is here is—" his voice cracks. "Look, I have to get out of here. Keep me in the loop?"   
  
"Of course," Lassiter agrees with speed that surprises even him. Was that really all he needed to turn Spencer from an annoyance to a valuable asset? Those three words passing his lips;  _I'm not psychic_. It's something that's going to cause trouble for everyone in this station at some point. Still, there's this nagging voice in his head that insists that Spencer may not be a psychic, but he's also not a  _fraud._  
  
The forensics reports that trickle in through the rest of the day are unhelpful. There are no fibers plucked from clothes. Guster's nails were meticulously trimmed and caught no flecks of skin. The car is likely a different color and in another state by now. Juliet begs off at five after having spent half the night on scene. Lassiter, who has slept far less through this affair stays until the chief forces him to leave.   
  
Instead of going home, he heads to Psych, tugging open the door to find a pale-faced Spencer in a sea of papers. It's far from the strangest thing Lassiter has walked in on in this office. He still has nightmares about the world's most epic game of cat's cradle. This looks like something Lassiter would expect in a private investigator's office. Something he'd never seen from Shawn. "You're doing legwork."  
  
Spencer barely glances up. "I always do legwork."  
  
"No, I'm guessing you always steal my leads and sweet talk witnesses into giving you tips."  
  
"You're just mad I never sweet talked you, Lassie."  
  
"Spencer."  
  
"You're wrong though. I sweet talk you all the time. You're just immune to my devilish charms. That's why I like you." He gestures to the papers. "Gus kept everything. All the client invoices, fan mail and threatening letters. There are patterns. The weird ones are in stacks. I've ranked them mildly odd, disturbing and rain of toads."  
  
"Rain of toads?"  
  
"I'm pretty sure the ones in that pile aren't legitimate threats. One guy threatened to turn me and Gus into newts. Gus wouldn't let me write him back."  
  
"Why in the name of sweet lady justice would you ever want to write him back?"  
  
Spencer shrugs. "I've never been a newt before."  
  
Lassiter crosses the room to sit down across from him. "What can I do to help?"  
  
For a second Spencer just blinks at him. Then he pushes himself to his feet and spreads his arms, looking dangerously close to someone about to pull Lassiter into an embrace. Lassiter's not good with that kind of contact. The Lassiter family hasn't ever been good with physical affection, not even when their dad left. His sister is more likely to punch him in the arm than to do anything fondly. Most of the other people he came into contact with were in the course of arresting them. Juliet had tried to initiate for a few months, Lassiter had even attempted to reciprocate, but stopped when they'd mutually realized how weird it felt.   
  
So dodging out of the way of Spencer is reflex even though he knows Shawn's still in shock. Knows that Shawn needs touch and the one person always willing to supply is currently in the morgue.  
  
He doesn't feel bad about it until Spencer's knees collapse out from under him and he's tumbling to the floor. Lassiter curses and lunges forward to catch him before he bangs his head against the desk. He checks first for a pulse and then for any obvious signs of injury before hauling him to the couch. Spencer's already stirring by the time he gets there, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Please say I didn't just swoon."  
  
"How long has it been since you ate something?"  
  
He pushes himself slowly to a sitting position. "I had a pineapple smoothie yesterday."  
  
"That doesn't count."  
  
"The nachos grande then. Me and Gus get them every Tuesday."   
  
"That was almost a week ago."  
  
"That would explain why the world is spinning."  
  
"Let's go, Spencer time to get some calories in you."  
  
He shakes his head. "Not yet. I've still go too much—"  
  
"You're useless to Guster like this. Come on, it's my treat."  


 

***

  
  
They get roaring drunk and it's mostly an accident. Shawn hasn't eaten anything in nearly a week and Lassiter has always found that alcohol makes him a decidedly less awkward human being. They pour out a sip of every drink to the floor for Gus and by the time they leave, Lassiter nearly has to carry Spencer back to the office. Spencer is out of it, mumbling, "Gus, I told you about the cucumber."   
  
It's all Lassiter can to keep them moving in the proper direction. He stays the night, dozing on the floor just to make sure Spencer doesn't accidentally kill himself. When he wakes up the next morning, it's to Shawn moaning in pain. He doesn't feel much better but he steals a glass of orange juice and a few ibuprofen and heads back to work.  
  
In his absence, Santa Barbara PD has set up a help line and he spends the day with Juliet running down bogus tips and every second puts the murder farther away.  
  
When he gets back to his apartment, he takes a long hot shower and gets an overdue change of closes. His cell phone rings when he's getting out and he has to rush to answer it. Spencer's voice greets him from the other end of the line, talking before he even gets a chance to say salutations. "I think I found something."  
  
"Is it something you can prove?"  
  
"Lassie, just get over here. I need someone to tell me I'm not just making this up."  
  
"I'll be there in twenty."  
  
He gets there in fifteen and when he walks in, Spencer has a series of five letters pinned to the walls. Lassiter scans them. They're all about missing persons. An eighteen year old, probably a runaway. A father walking out on his children. A college kid who never came back from a semester abroad. "Do you see it?" Spencer asks.  
  
"See what? People go missing every day. I don't know if we even got missing persons report on any of these. I mean I remember the kid, but he clearly took off."  
  
"Not the people. The dates."  
  
"The first week of August?"  
  
"The first Monday of August. The same day Gus went missing."  
  
"But I remember some of these cases. They were runaways. Deadbeat dads. Never any indications of foul play."  
  
"Look at the handwriting. The way he writes the f. The r. It's the same."  
  
"There are five different signatures here." Lassiter moves closer and double checks his statements. Every r is uppercase, each f done in cursive style. The entire set of writing done in a heavy hand. "You're saying that they're forged."  
  
"Every single person with a name here told me this afternoon that they'd accepted Bill or John or Dexter had run off. They had no reason to write me for help. But someone did."  
  
Lassiter's stomach clenches. Because if Spencer's right, this isn't just an isolated murder. This is a serial killing and the last time, Yin and Yang, still haunt his dreams. But the evidence is staring at them. He takes a long, steadying breath. "Here's what we need to do. Find a pair of latex gloves and put them on. Then get every piece of paper you think this guy might have touched. I'm going to go outside and get an evidence bag so we can take this into the station. If he's sending notes, that means he's looking for attention. If he's looking for attention, there's a part of him that wants to be caught. If we're lucky, we'll get a fingerprint. We've already got you and Guster on file so we can exclude those. Is there any chance someone else touched these?"  
  
"Not unless we have an army of gremlins. Which actually might make sense considering this place always seems to clean itself up after I leave."  
  
Guster did the cleaning. Mostly likely before Spencer hauled himself out of bed. They both know it’s true, but neither of them acknowledges it as they pack up and head back to the station.  


 

***

  
  
"Where did this tip come from again?" Juliet looks worse for the wear of the past week. It's hard to maintain a level of disdain for the psychic wonder when his other half had been murdered.   
  
"Your ex had a 'psychic episode' or something," Lassiter mumbles and tries to ignore the way she flinches.  
  
"He's not you know," Juliet says. "A psychic I mean. You've been insisting it for years."  
  
"Of course he's not a psychic. There's no such thing. Doesn't mean he's not useful." He turns to look Juliet in the eyes. "And honestly the fact that you ever believed him is the most disappointing part of this mess."  
  
Juliet's mouth snapped shut. "I broke up with him when he told me. He lied to us for six years."  
  
"And our solve rate has been perfect."  
  
"You can't be saying you think I overreacted."  
  
"No, you were always too good for Spencer. I'm just saying you need to get your head screwed on straight, because like it or not, you're going to have to keep seeing him."  
  
They lapse back into silence as they pour over the five cases Spencer has pointed them to. The calls he makes are all variations on the same theme that's in print. No indication of foul play, all people who were statistically more likely to leave. Cases closed.  
  
Lassiter does not give them any information as it related to the current case. He's not sure if it's better to think a loved one was murdered or if they left on their own free will. He thinks of his father. He knows which he would have preferred and also what his sister would like. He also knows they're not the same.   
  
"This is bizarre. Was Shawn sure about this? It seems like a bit of a stretch."  
  
"I saw the letters. It's either the truth or an incredibly elaborate hoax and Guster's going to crash his own funeral."  
  
"I wish," Juliet mumbles.  


 

***

  
  
It's sunny for the funeral. After the Despereaux fiasco, Lassiter almost doesn't expect Shawn to show up. He's late, but arrives in an ill-fitting suit with Henry Spencer marching behind him. Shawn looks terrible. He's pale and at least five pounds lighter than the last time Lassiter saw him. His left eye is badly bruised and swollen nearly shut, the other is red like he's been crying recently.   
  
Standing at the alter, he looks as small as Lassiter has ever seen him. Looks uncomfortable at having an audience. He licks chapped lips and the first time he tries to speak, his voice cracks and he has to stare at the ground until he collects himself.   
  
When composes himself, his voice is steady. "I know there are a lot of people out there who think this is my fault. And if anyone else wants to take a swing, I'll meet you in the parking lot after this and you can have your go. I was a terrible influence and I know that I'm probably the reason Gus blew the rest of you off more than once. Gus was my best friend. Has been my best friend for as long as I can remember and I remember a lot."  
  
Half of the Santa Barbara Police Department is in the crowd. The other half is a scattering of family and people Lassiter's never met before. If the myriad of people is any indication, Guster had a lot of friends.  
  
He can't shake the feeling that Spencer just had one.  
  
"Gus was my best friend and he was the best person I've even known. I could stand up here for hours and tell you stories. Because man, do I have some stories. I figure the whole sworn to secrecy clause expires when someone you know, expires." He squints into the sun and his eyes pick out Lassiter in the crowd. "But I'm not going to do that. What I am going to tell you is that Gus didn't deserve any of this and that whoever killed him is going to pay." He glances sideways to the casket. "I love you, buddy."  
  
Then, without another word, he walks away.  
  
Lassiter finds him later loitering in the parking lot, staring at his feet. "Come to deck me, Lassie?"  
  
"Who got you the first time?"  
  
"Joy. Gus's sister. I probably deserved it."  
  
"I didn't actually expect you to come."  
  
Laughter sounds like breaking glass. "Wasn't planning on it. Dad's pretty good at persuasion. I told him I'd rather not waste time I could use to catch this guy. He told me the trail's already gone cold." He kicks the sidewalk. "He's right."  
  
"We've been looking into the old cases you turned up. Nothing new. Whoever this guy is, he's good."  
  
"I've been going backwards. I figure that maybe if I can find the first one, we can get a sense of who it is. I found a few other years, 2006, 2004, 2000, but not all of this got into the papers."  
  
"Spencer."  
  
"I mean the guy sent me those letters. He obviously wants someone to notice. What am I missing?"  
  
Lassiter takes off his sunglasses. "I hate to say this, but have you ever considered the idea that you're inventing a conspiracy? That maybe this whole thing is just a way for you to cope?"  
  
"Cope? You think this is coping? Coping is what I'll do after I catch this bastard. Probably in Mexico. Or maybe Latvia. I think my passport's still good."  
  
"You're going to leave?"  
  
"Gus isn't here."  
  
A thousand protest die on Lassiter's lips. Spencer is an annoyance, yes, but he keeps thinking of people like Yang, people who would still be out there if not for his help. Besides, he's very nearly gotten used to Spencer's presence. If not for Spencer, he'd be in jail. He reaches for the right words, for something to make him understand, but all that comes to his lips is, "I'm sorry for your loss."  
  
Spencer snorts. "Not half as sorry as I am."  


 

***

  
  
The investigation is slowing down. There's nothing new to do so Lassiter goes home and sleeps for a full fifteen hours before going back to work. Chief Vick had given a press conference the day they found the body, promising justice, but there had been no follow-up as there was nothing to announce except for inaction. Politics prevented them from staying in the news and the constant specter of an unsolved homicide would lower the trust in the police.  
  
All arguments that Lassiter understands intellectually but hates in practice. Woody's final results on the autopsy offer nothing more than the preliminary ones. The massive taskforce is slowly reassigned. Lassiter knows that it's only a matter of time before he too is pulled off this case, before the chief is forced to admit that the trail is cold. He hasn't seen Spencer since the funeral which would worry him if not for the fact that Henry Spencer doesn't seem beside himself with rage.  
  
Juliet throws her hands up in frustration. "I give up. Sometimes a missing person's case is just a runaway. We're wasting time."  
  
Lassiter agrees, but he also knows from experience it will either take a conviction or a month of solid busts for the somber mood to lift from the station. Lassiter used to fool himself into thinking they were just the mascots, but they'd adopted Shawn and Gus a long time ago.  
  
Unsolved homicide. It's a blight on his record, but it's also seems to be fact. Juliet is less upset, but Miami has more than its fair share of unsolved murders.  
  
When he gets the call from Spencer, it's a relief. Though he’ll never admit it, Spencer can work miracles. "Please say you have something." The moment's hesitation is something and it throws him. "Shawn, what did you find?"  
  
"I think I've got the first one, Lassie. The first disappearance."  
  
"That's fantastic, did it give you any leads? If I don't come up with something soon, they're going to start assigning other cases to me and Juliet."  
  
"Yeah," Spencer says, laughing dryly. "Whatever happened to Papa Lassiter? You never talk about him. "  
  
"Because he walked out on use when I was thirteen. What's this got to do with anything?"  
  
"Monday August 3rd, 1987. Twenty-five years ago, Roger Lassiter allegedly walked out on his family. His wife filed a missing person's report three days later, but nothing ever came of it. It was the first one I could find."  
  
"The first what?" Lassiter asks but it's a reflex.   
  
"The first murder."  
  
Twenty-five years ago Roger Lassiter had a fight with his wife and left his entire family behind. Neighbors claimed they had expected it for ages. The Lassiters were 16 and 17 when then had their first child. Lassiter's been ignoring evidence that his mother may have slept around for most of his adult life.   
  
But if Roger wanted to leave, he wouldn't have left his children. If he wanted to run, he would have done it years before. Lassiter stares at the phone in his hands and hears himself say, "I'll be there as soon as I can."

 

***

"I didn't know," Shawn says before the door is even closed. "I've known you for almost six years. How could I have no idea?"  
  
"That I had daddy issues? Spencer, everyone has daddy issues. Yourself included. Don't think I missed the mess when you mother was in town. He walked out us. It happens. We got over it." The walls are plastered with faces, a few of them are old missing posters, but most of print outs from police files Lassiter knows he doesn't have access to. Roger Lassiter starts the chain, his face the same as he remembers it. On the opposite side is Gus smiling to the camera, his face squished against Shawn's as if they were two teenaged girls. "Did you get all this from police reports?"  
  
"Some. Others from newspapers. A few from the internet. They're all local to Santa Barbara. The ones I circled in red I'm pretty sure about. Tracked down the contact info and everything."  
  
"Spencer, this… impressive." And it is. This a Herculean feat of research. Funny how he'd never connected it before. If Spencer had no inside source and wasn't psychic, he and Guster did all their own footwork. He'd never expected to see Spencer involved in something so methodical.  
  
"How else did you think I solved cases?"  
  
"Not paperwork, that's for sure. I guess I assumed there was a certain amount of whacky antics and dumb luck."  
  
"Only on Wednesday," Shawn mumbles. "They're not all in Santa Barbara, these cases, but they're all people who were seen in or around the area at least once."  
  
"One of these reports was from Chicago."  
  
"College student. Her ticket was used, but I talked to one of her friend who swore up and down she never boarded."  
  
"And how drunk was this student?"  
  
"My research is good." He clutches a stack of notes to his chest and glances back at the picture of him and Gus. "I just need to confirmation. What do you remember about the day your dad left?"  
  
"He'd been fighting with my mom. It late, but it was loud. The door slammed and then I fell asleep. When I woke up the next morning, the car was gone. Lauren was eleven. He never came back."  
  
"And you never thought that was weird? That he never tried to contact you?"  
  
There were a lot of strange things about his father. He was old enough to hear the whispers, but the rumors had always been about his mother. About how the youngest of the Lassiters didn't quite look like his father. It was a family ripe for breaking. There'd been a cursory police investigation, but no one had seen the point.   
  
Even now, Lassiter's not sure he sees the point. "My mother was cheating on him. I'm not sure with who, but it seems a safe bet."  
  
Spencer nods, doesn't even have the good grace to look contrite. He turns back to his wall and pulls a red sharpie out from behind his ear, circling the picture of Roger Lassiter in red. He misses the paper, the marker squeaking as it skids onto the paint.   
  
But how likely is it that this is all true? That Guster was the latest in a quarter century string of murders that started with Lassiter's own father. He would sooner believe that the notes were product of some bored frat boy trying to see if he could con a great detective.  
  
"You need to stop," he says.  
  
Spencer actually freezes at the tone of his voice, betrayal in his eyes. "My dad told me the same thing."  
  
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Lassiter takes a deep breath. "You need to stop for a second and consider something. It's one of the hardest lessons a detective ever has to learn. Sometimes there's too little evidence. Too much time. Sometimes you lose."  
  
Sally Alzner taught that to Lassiter. Sometimes people disappear. Sometimes there are no leads. Spencer's six years into the job and it hasn't happened to him yet. That's nothing short of miraculous.  
  
"I'm not giving up," Spencer says.  
  
"People go mad when they don't let go. It doesn't matter if you find him and kill him with your own two hands. Gus isn't coming back. The way you're going is going to destroy you too."  
  
"Lassie, it's really funny that you think I'll be all right after this." He stares at his wall of the missing. His wall of victims. "That's not going to happen. Now if you're not going to help me, you need to leave."  
  
Lassiter leaves.  
 

***

  
  
In the next week, Lassiter works half a dozen cases. A B&E. A suicide. A drowning by the pier. There's nothing out of the ordinary out of any of them. There's tool mark evidence and suspects and closure. He lets Juliet take lead on two of them and spends his extra time combing through the increasingly thin tips on the Guster case.  
  
Then, just short of three weeks after the Guster's body was found, Spencer makes his move. Lassiter's woken up at six in the morning by the chief calling on her own phone. "Did you know anything about this?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"The paper, Lassiter! Spencer took everything he found and gave it to the newspaper. We're in for a media clusterfuck. How much of this did he bring to you first?"  
  
"Why do you think he came to me?"  
  
"Because your dad's on the list, Carlton. What did he say to you?"  
  
"He tried to tell me my father was murdered. Asked me about the day he left. I told him to let it go."  
  
He can hear the exasperated sigh. "You told Spencer to let it go? That's the most encouraging thing you could say to him in the circumstance. Get to the station. Now. We need to do some damage control."  
  
There's a whirlwind after that. Spencer manages to be a pain in his side even when not at the station. He's made it so the police can't ignore this set of leads. There will be questions. A public outcry. A whole lot of families pulled back to the past, including Lassiter's own.  
  
He almost admires the move in the same subtle way he admires most of Spencer's methods. When he gets to the station, there's a crush of reporters. The chief's already scheduled a press conference but that doesn't stop the nagging questions. "Why didn't news of this new development come from the SBPD?"  
  
"Do you believe Shawn Spencer is correct and Santa Barbara is facing a serial killer?"   
  
"What do have to say about the death of your own father?"  
  
The last one breaks his string of no comments and he pulls off his sunglasses to squint at the microphone. "I'm sorry?"  
  
"Roger Lassiter was the earliest name listed. Surely you've been advised of this, Detective Lassiter."  
  
He's stopped so he has to say something. If he leaves with a sneer, he's just going to get another reprimand about his terrible PR skills. He licks his lips. "Nothing has been confirmed. I would appreciate it if you kept my family out of your speculation."  
  
Inside, Juliet is beside herself at Spencer's audacity. Lassiter feels like he's in the eighteenth mile of a marathon, but they're moving. Yesterday, hope was waning. Today Spencer has shoved possibilities down their throats.  
  
"Twenty-five names and only one body," O'Hara says. "He's going to be wrong about something."  
  
"I don't think he cares about anything but getting results."  
  
Their paperwork has quintupled again. They're both banned from the press conference for being too close to the case. They're both bitter about it, but it's better than being off the case completely. Juliet isn't looking at him when she says, "You never told me about your father."  
  
"You never told me about yours."  
  
"That's different."  
  
"It's really not."  


 

***

  
  
There's no sign of Spencer that day. They match up three of his names with bodies found in different counties and three other people come forward to get their own names removed from the list. It's one of the busiest periods Lassiter has ever had in the station and he blames that when he realizes it's been three days and Spencer still hasn't shown his face.  
  
None of them think it's strange. Then Lassiter wakes up and finds the morning paper staring at him, headline bright and accusing:  _ **FRAUD**_. Spencer's picture is next to it. One of the times he'd jokingly struck a psyching pose for the press. Lassiter's in the background talking to Juliet. Gus's left arm is visible.   
  
He skims the story thinking of Spencer's own admission,  _I'm not a psychic_. At this point, Lassiter wouldn't be surprised to find that he'd confirmed it in print. The story has a lot of evidence laid out. Enough to suggest that someone has been following Shawn and Gus, has talked to their sources. There is even mention of a recording, but no quotes.   
  
_Not from Spencer._  If Spencer was going to out himself as a non-psychic, he would do it himself, verbally.  
  
He shoves the paper into the pocket of his jacket and drives the familiar route to the psych offices only to find them empty. The research has been cleared off the walls. All that remains are the stray marks from the Sharpies. There's a pineapple smoothie, half-finished in the fridge, one of Spencer's ridiculous ThunderCats dolls perched on his desk.   
  
Spencer is not here. There are pictures everywhere. Shawn and Gus through the ages and it seems like the kind of thing Shawn would want to keep close to him. A pit drops in his stomach. He's never put much stock in hunches—hunches were Spencer's area—but he knows what they're like and he knows some people who swear by them.   
  
_Spencer's gone. He didn't leave. He's gone._  
  
On a whim, he's back in his car and headed to Spencer's apartment. A place he's only been once, his fears crystallizing even before he notices that Spencer's motorcycle is still there. He knocks three times but there's no answer at all.  


 

***

  
  
No one at the police station takes him seriously. Juliet rolls her eyes and says, "That's what he does when things get to real. I'm surprised it took this long."  
  
Henry Spencer says, "Yeah, that sounds like Shawn."  
  
Chief Vick says, "Honestly, Carlton, he's done us a favor by laying low."  
  
But Spencer doesn't lay low, Spencer rushes into things when he has even half a lead. How is Lassiter the only person who remembers that? The only person left alive who still understands Shawn Spencer. Subtlety is not in his vocabulary.  
  
At half past noon when his mother calls, it's very nearly a welcome relief until she lowers her voice to almost a whisper and says, "Carlton is it possible that you can come over? I'm afraid the stories in the newspaper have things rather wrong."  
  
"Mom, now's really not a good time."  
  
"Make it a good time, Carlton," she snaps and hangs up.  
  
He goes to the chief, pleads family emergency. She sighs and lets him leave. His conflict of interest is becoming something too big to ignore.   
  
His mother's house is the same one he grew up in, right down the deteriorating paint job on the white picket fence. The garden in the back is overgrown, but still producing and the doghouse belonging to a pet long ago dead still stands proudly. He uses his spare key to open the door to find his mother sitting regally in her armchair, a stack of envelopes in front of her. She's stooped a little with age, but her ice blue eyes and her dark hair streaked with gray still make for an intimidating picture. A cigarette dangles loosely from her fingers. "I thought I was going to get a visit from you as soon as it came out."  
  
"Mom, in case you haven't notice, I'm in the middle of one of the biggest cases of my life."  
  
"Carlton, sit down and listen to your mother. That psychic kid of yours, the fraud. He beat you here. You really have no reason to be so damn stubborn."  
  
"Shawn was here?"  
  
"Phone call. Didn't sound nearly as much like a child as you make him out." She takes a long drag from her cigarette. Lassiter itches to snatch it from her lips. She's already had one cancer scare and he's not sure he's in a place where he could handle another. "Don't even think about saying a word, Carly, it's my damn house. I'll smoke if I like."  
  
"What did Spencer ask you?"  
  
"The same question you and Lauren failed to ask me for years. What happened between me and your father."  
  
"You told him?" Lassiter breaths, terrified.  
  
"Of course not. I told him that your father wasn't picked up by any serial killer because he's still alive."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
She reaches to the coffee table, grabbing the stack of letters. "He's been sending me letters. Not on the anniversary or anything, but the first week or so of every August, I get a letter with his name on it. Haven't opened a single one."  
  
Lassiter stares at the letters in his hands. Twenty-five years and he'd not had a single word about his father only to have it all placed in his hand. "You didn't open them?" His blood pressure is rising. It's the first time he's felt really, _properly_ angry in weeks. "Me and Lauren thought he  _forgot about us_ , mom!"  
  
"Listen to me, Carlton. I know you think I'm the bad guy here. You think I slept around and Roger left in a huff. But you don't know the whole story and if I have it my way, you'll never know the whole story. Your daddy was not a nice man. We were better off not having him in our lives." Her cigarette smolders, hanging off her bottom lip. "He's not dead. I can tell you that much. My last letter was a day after all that mess with your psychic's friend. Don't waste any time on him." She folds her arm. "Burn the letters if you like. I should have done that years ago."  
  
The tone of her voice makes him want to comply immediately, but instead he nods and slides them into his coat pocket. "Thank you," he says.  
  
"Get back to work," she says, waving her hand. "I remember your speeches. Big case, important things to do. Just give your mother a kiss first."  
  
Lassiter leans forward obligingly and gives her a peck on the cheek. She smells like her menthol cigarettes, smells like home. He tries to remember how his father smelled, how he looked, but the sight is long faded from his mind, an impossible figure he'll never recover.  


 

***

  
  
He doesn't go back to the station.   
  
Psych's empty and Shawn's gone so he goes to the office, takes out the spare key Spencer had presented him at Christmas one year and lets himself inside. He can't think anymore. This is the kind of case where Spencer with his unconventional methods and quick thinking is invaluable.   
  
He feels useless and hates feeling useless. Instead of dwelling on it, he takes out the letters his father had sent. They're in no particular order. Some of the envelopes are yellowed with age, others crisp and white. They all smell like smoke. He reaches into the crease and opens the first one.  
  
Reading it feels like an invasion. He's never had an overly romantic picture of his parent's relationship, but this is something he didn't expect. The notes is overly curt, a few perfunctory words.   
  
_Marie,  
Eight years. Do you regret it?  
Roger_  
  
He opens another.   
  
_Marie,  
I'm starting to think you'll never understand.  
Roger._  
  
And another.  
  
_Marie,  
Carlton looks good in blue.   
Roger_  
  
There is a growing stack of shredded envelopes on the table. He spends less time one each individual letter as a picture starts to form in his head. He doesn't like the shape.   
  
_Marie,  
Twenty-five.  
I'm going to make sure you notice.  
Roger._  
  
Something clicks and he drops the letter's like he's been burned, his mother's voice echoing in his head,  _Your daddy was not a nice man._  The handwriting. The distinct style of the fs. The upscale r even in the middle of a word. He checks the postmarks, all early August. He's willing to bet all the first week.  
  
All the first Monday.  
  
And if Shawn talked to his mother, there's every chance he made the same conclusion. The letters are only half open, but he doesn't need to see any more. Doesn't want to see any more. He turns to the envelopes instead. A few of them have generic addresses, PO boxes, but some of the newer ones have a home listed.  
  
Outside the city. A rural street Lassiter doesn't recognize. He's been using the address for at least seven letters. There's every chance he's still there.  
  
His GPS tells him it's a thirty minute ride and he starts driving before he realizes he should call for back-up.   
  
But he can't because there's a chance he's wrong.  
  
He hopes to God he is wrong.   
  
Santa Barbara is sunny and warm, clouds spiraling up into the heavens. One of his friends was murdered almost four weeks ago. Another could be dead soon. May be dead already. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel. The chatter on his police scanner is mostly inanities about traffic stops.  
  
He's at the address in no time at all. It's off a dirt road, held together with nothing but spit and a prayer. It looks abandoned, the window next to the door is shattered. He doubts it has functioning water or electricity. The fact that the ramshackle mailbox is still here is nothing short of a miracle.  
  
It looks like a dead end.   
  
Pulling out his phone, he texts O'Hara.  _Investigating lead @ 261 Cedar Way. If no word in 30, send everyone._  She won't wait thirty minutes. Lassiter knows she won't. But it still gives him a buffer in case he's made a mistake. He draws his gun, tugs the safety off and knocks twice on the door.  
  
There's no sound from inside. Lassiter takes a deep breath and tries to door handle. He has no probable cause and he could well be risking the entire investigation, but if they lose Spencer when he could have prevented it, he doesn't think he'd be able to live it.

The door is unlocked and the knob squeaks as he turns it. He's done this a thousand times. Usually with back-up but the principals are the same. His pulse is pointing in his throat, his finger is on the trigger.  
  
The first thing he sees is Spencer, sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, hands bound behind him in duct tape. His head lolls backwards. As Lassiter reaches out to take his pulse he jerks into awareness, gasping around a filthy gag. He tugs it out and the Spencer's voice explodes into the still air, "It's a trap Lassiter, a fucking trap! Please tell me you're not alone."  
  
"O'Hara will be here soon." He glances down. "Why didn't you try to run?"  
  
"Gee, Lassie, I'd love to but the mean old serial killer decided to start by breaking both my legs."  
  
Lassiter fights back a flinch. "Where is he?"  
  
"I dunno. I think he suspected someone would be looking for me well before this. Tried to tell him that Gus was the only one who cared, but that didn't work so well. I think he's got a razor by the table."  
  
Spencer's hands are bound behind his back. A formality, a way to keep him from lashing out. The straight razor on the counter isn't clean in the slightest, stained red around the edges. He tries not to think about that.   
  
When he turns around, standing over Spencer, casually pointing a gun to the back of his head is Roger Lassiter.  
  
"Hello, Carlton."  
  
"Dad," he breathes.   
  
Twenty-five years since he last saw the man. His memories are wispy things, a dark haired giant smiling down at him. The dark hair has faded to salt and pepper, lines etched themselves into his cheeks and he seems smaller than Lassiter's memory.  
  
But last time he was thirteen and his dad was still the biggest thing in his universe.  
  
_We were better off not having him in our lives._  
  
"Now, real slow, Carlton I need you to put your gun on the floor and slide it over to me."  
  
"Why would I ever do that?"  
  
"Because if you don't I'll blow a nice hole in the back of the fraud's head."  
  
"Is that all?" Spencer says from the chair, his voice squeaking. "Seriously? That's the best you can do? Go ahead and shoot him Lassie. I don't care if he gets me first. He killed Gus, he should die."  
  
Roger kicks the side of his chair and the motion is enough to jar Spencer's broken legs and send him howling in pain.  
  
Lassiter bends down and slides the gun across the dusty wood floors. It stops just inches from Spencer's feet and he stares down at it, breath coming in shattered gasps as he regains his composure.  
  
"It's nice to see you again, Carlton. I always hoped you would be the one who found me."  
  
"You don't have to do this." Lassiter schools the tremor out of his voice. "If you stop now, it'll still be better than a murder charge."  
  
Roger laughs. "Playing dumb. Interesting tactic. But, you're right you know. Your whore of a mother didn't give those letters any thought at all. If she'd talked to someone, I may have been stopped years ago. And you. You wouldn't be here unless you saw through them."  
  
"Murder convictions need physical evidence. Even in cases as sick as yours. What happened to the cars?"  
  
"Sold them. Amazing what people are willing to overlook for a deal."  
  
"Clever," Lassiter comments absently. It's the same way he would have done it. When he was finishing his criminal justice degree, he used to sit in his room and think about the perfect crime, his father's voice echoing in his ears.  _There's no use to doing something if you're not thorough._  "Except, you're clearly not. Because no matter what happens here, you're done."  
  
"That's where you're wrong. Whatever happens here, I'm immortal. Do you know how many people out there who will remember me? Not as Roger Lassiter who's wife cheated on him and still got everything but as one of the worlds most successful serial killers."  
  
"Then you killed them all."  
  
Lassiter's hand clenches around the razor on the table. He makes eye contact with Shawn who is frantically working his hands behind the chair. Lassiter doesn't doubt that escape and evade was one of the Henry Spencer childhood training lessons.  
  
"Twenty-five people. A good solid number. Multiples of five always seem so much neater. Wanted to do something special for this one." The gun kisses the back of Spencer's head. "Shame you didn't call for backup. Would have thought a by the book kind of guy like yourself would use better police work." He cocks the gun. "I would have loved to go out in a blaze of glory."  
  
Lassiter throws the razor. It catches Roger in the shoulder, just enough to change the line of the gun. Instead of Shawn's head exploding into a cloud of red, the bullet glances of the side of his scalp and he topples to the ground. Lassiter hears his muffled cry of pain, but knows he has no prayer but to move and move now. He covers the space between them just fast enough to force the gun into the air before Roger squeezes off three more shots. They blast a hole in the ceiling, showering them with bits of drywall. Lassiter has the methodical arrest down to a science, but this isn't that kind of fight. His gun holster is empty, he's outweighed by about fifty pounds and he's not used to this kind of scuffle.   
  
And there's a little part of him that still thinks his father is the strongest man in the world.  
  
He grasps for leverage but his hands keep sliding off the cotton shirt, nails scraping against skin as there's another crack of a gun and then white hot pain in his stomach and a blossoming sea of red on his stomach. He gets a hand up and presses a thumb into an eye.  
  
And then all of a sudden, the weight of the body against him goes slack, landing heavily on his chest. He glances sideways to see Shawn Spencer lying on his side holding Lassiter's gun in his hand. Ripped duct tape hangs off of wrists rubbed red. He dimly remembers Lucinda and a shooting range.  _I tell you, Carlton. Kid's a crack shot_. "You all right?" he asks. "Because I think I might pass out."  
  
Stomach wounds bleed a lot but they kill you slow. He'll get to a hospital in time. "Juliet will be here soon."  
  
The world gets a little hazy after that.  


 

***

  
  
He wakes up in the hospital to Chief Vick's face. Her arms are crossed, her face stern. "I expected better from you. There's a reasons we have protocols in place. It's a miracle you didn't get yourself killed."  
  
"I had to be sure," he mumbles.  
  
"You still keep us in the loop, Carlton. You know how this works."  
  
"It was my dad," he says, closing his eyes. "I wanted to be wrong."  


 

***

  
  
Lassiter has more friends than he thought if the parade of people through his hotel room is any indication. Buzz McNab brings him a stuffed dog. Henry Spencer claps him warmly on the shoulder and calls him a good man. Juliet spends almost four hours in his room making fun of crap daytime television. He doesn't see Spencer for two days until he wakes up in the middle of the night to find Spencer sitting next to him in a wheelchair, both legs encased in white plaster. "Don't you have your own room?"  
  
Spencer gives him a ghost of a smile. "Jailbreak. Wanted to come say hi. I don't sit still well."  
  
"It's the middle of the night."  
  
"Couldn't sleep."  
  
"So you decided to wake me up?"  
  
"I killed a guy," he says flatly. "I've never done that before. I killed a guy and Gus is dead and everyone keeps asking me if I'm okay. Are they stupid?"  
  
Lassiter laughs, the stitches pulling tight in his side.  
  
Spencer folds his hands in his lap. "I've never killed anyone before. I mean dad always made sure I could handle a gun, but I never thought I'd have to—" He lets out a long, shaky breath. "I just wanted to ask. Does it get easier?"  
  
He's killed four people in the line of duty and slept well that night. It had never struck him as out of the normal. Now he thinks of his father and feels sick. "Yes. It gets easier. It shouldn't, but it does."  
  
"Are  _you_ all right, Lassie?"  
  
"Few new scars, but I'll survive."  
  
Neither of them go back to sleep.  


 

***

  
  
They let a reporter into his room the day before discharge. He gets through the interview without raising his voice, but that's only thanks to the sedatives still present in his IV drip. Only one question really takes him by surprise.   
  
"What do you have to say about the accusations that Shawn Spencer is a fraud? You always were one of his most vocal doubters in the police force."  
  
It takes him a minute to collect his thoughts and piece them together in the right order. "In the past six years, do you know how many unsolved cases we've had in the SBPD? None. Six years and we've closed everything that came across our desks. A lot of that was thanks to Spencer. I know the papers want to label him as a fraud, but I don't care if that's true. Shawn Spencer is effective. He could pretend to be a peacock and I wouldn't care if we kept clearing cases."  
  
"In light of recent accusations, it's entirely possible there will be some cases reopened."  
  
"They won't find anything," Lassiter promises.  


 

***

  
  
He goes to Guster's grave when he gets the chance. Spencer's there too, dripping sweat from pushing the wheelchair through grass. He looks up to Lassiter. "I can't wait to get out of this thing. Not nearly as good of a pick up line for chicks as I would have thought."  
  
There's a pineapple perched on top of Gus's grave, standing out amidst the sea of flowers.   
  
"I saw the story. Never thought you'd end up being on my side. Jules is still pissed beyond all belief."  
  
"Jules should have gotten over it a long time ago. Of course you're not a psychic."  
  
Spencer's smile is weak but genuine. "Don't know if I can still keep doing this. Psychic Detective's kind of lost its shine. Thinking about burrito sales. I feel like there's a budding burrito market."  
  
"Running away then?"  
  
"As soon as I get the medical all clear, I'm off for parts unknown. You could come with me if you want. I know for a fact you've probably got more than a year's vacation saved up."  
  
For a moment Lassiter considers it. Even before this mess, half of the department treated him like he was a loose cannon. It would be nice to have a break.  
  
But Lassiter doesn't know how to be anything but a cop and he's never considered running from a fight. "Thanks for the offer, but not on your life."  
  
"Figured as much." He straightens, and offers Lassiter a hand. "I guess this is goodbye then. Thanks, you know. For saving my life."  
  
Lassiter reaches out and shakes his hand. "Think we're about even."  
  
"Yeah, I guess so." Spencer turns and starts to make his way back to the road.  
  
"Spencer!" Lassiter calls after him. Only the pause in motion lets him know that he's still heard. "I'll see you when you get back."  
  
There's no reply, but the sun is shining, breathing hurts just a little less and he knows the world owes them both some brighter days.


End file.
